


duck sauce, meet bear cheese

by thememoriesfire



Category: Glee
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-30
Updated: 2011-06-30
Packaged: 2017-10-20 21:18:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/217191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thememoriesfire/pseuds/thememoriesfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rachel encourages Finn to help Brittany make 'Fondue for Two' a success.  Things don't work out exactly how she hopes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	duck sauce, meet bear cheese

So yeah, the summer’s off to a pretty good start.

Not everything’s perfect; Quinn has been all over the place, like normal, but some days she seriously looks like she wants to stab everyone and other days she’s like  _way_  too friendly.  It’s not as if she’s ever been friends with Rachel before so when she starts trying, it’s mostly just creepy and Finn can’t get both of them out of the room fast enough.

Nobody else seems to really care that they’re together now.  Like, it was sort of a given.  Rachel has all sorts of comparisons to couples in movies that she likes to bring up, but to Finn, it’s a lot simpler than that: she’s like, super amazing, and he’s going to do better by her this time.

He promised Kurt that much, anyway, because Kurt’s all paranoid that his future roommate is going to be like, soul-sucked a second time over, but, he means it, this time.  He’s going to actually be the boyfriend that Rachel deserves and protect her from the rest of the school, and at least  _try_  to listen to her when she’s talking, and in exchange she’s promised to not give him another cat calendar and to not hassle him constantly about the CoD tournament that he’s playing with Puck and Sam this summer.

It’s going to be a great senior year, if this keeps up; finally, all the drama’s out of the club and yeah, his girlfriend’s pretty hot and pretty special.

What more could he possibly want?

*

Okay, so maybe the one downside to dating Rachel is that it’s like all glee all the time.  Even during the summer, with Mr. Schue off in New York to like, help that April Rhodes thing get going,  _Rachel_  seems to think they need to be rehearsing or getting ready for next year.

He gets it; it’s mostly his fault they didn’t win Nationals, even though everyone (or well, mostly Santana) is blaming Rachel for being kissed, which is just stupid.  He’s like eighteen feet taller than her, or something. What was she supposed to do, knee him in the nads?

He  _knows_  it’s his fault, and so even though it’s boring the crap out of him, he helps her make new lists for next year’s sectionals, and helps her come up with a recruitment plan for some incoming freshmen to pad out the team a little (and to maybe make sure that there’d still be someone for Sam to sing with, when everyone else graduates), and even helps her record two MySpace videos of like, cheesy love songs, just because it will make her happy.

(Quinn’s clearly on the road to recovery, because her only comment on the link is  _gag me with a spoon_.)

Then, Rachel starts thinking about happiness.

He knows a dangerous topic when one is brought up, because whenever Rachel starts thinking about  _happiness,_ it’s usually a sign that he’s doing something wrong.  Like he’s not being enough like Gene Kelly or something, or like there’s not enough  _fireworks_  (not that she’d use that word, it’s kind of a sensitive subject), or like—

He can’t even really handle the idea of her breaking up with him.  Maybe it’s something that he deserves, you know, given their junior year, but he’s really trying to be someone who deserves her, this time around.

It’s bad enough that he can’t dance, so… he warily sits on the edge of her bed and watches as she paces in front of him, arms flailing everywhere.  If McKinley High ever goes to war, he’d totally nominate her to be like commander in chief or whatever.  She’s a little intense, but—she gets stuff done.

“So—that just leaves Brittany,” Rachel says, before looking at him.

He has absolutely no idea how they got from “Wouldn’t it be great if everyone was as happy as we are?” to “Brittany”.  And shit, he was  _trying_  to pay attention.  Maybe he should point out to her that if she’d just wear a normal length skirt, it wouldn’t be so hard.  (He never had any difficulties listening to Quinn but then Quinn also liked to  _pinch_  to get him to stay focused, so.

He really hopes they’ll never exchange notes.)

“What about Britt?” he asks, because while Rachel’s up in everyone’s business whether they want her to be or not—there is just no stopping her—he can’t remember her even ever having like, a pleasant exchange about _singing_  with Brittany.

“It has come to my attention that Brittany’s internet show is not being supported by the team very well and I think it would be great if you could go over to her house and let her interview you.”

He blinks when he realizes that he actually managed to follow all of that; it was downright succinct by Rachel standards.  (And yeah, he knows what succinct means now.  Dating her has been weird.)  ”But—”

“If you do it, I’ll let you touch my breasts.”

“… why can’t you do it?”

Rachel stares at him.  ”Because the last time Brittany said anything to me, it was that it was impressive that I could function so well with such a short torso.”

Finn sighs and rolls his eyes a little.  ”She didn’t  _mean_ anything by that, she just—”

“Well, see, that’s my point.  You understand her,” Rachel says, crossing her legs and staring at him pointedly.  He thinks she might even be pushing her chest out a bit, which is—hey, Quinn used to do that all the time to get his attention.  It’s funny that they both do it.  Or maybe not funny.  Rachel has bigger boobs, so, there’s more to look at.

He jerks his head upwards when she snaps her fingers.  ”The point is, Brittany’s been a little bit sad lately, now that things with Santana are officially never going to happen, so—”

“Wait, … Brittany and Santana had a thing?” he asks.

Rachel sighs and then pats him on the knee.  ”I’ll find an appropriate bra for your first under the shirt adventure with me.  She’s expecting you at 3.30.”

It’s a good thing he’s used to being manipulated by girls that are much smarter than he is, or he’d probably be a little more annoyed.  As it is, he just says, “I like you in that black bra.”

“Excuse me?”

“What, I could see it through your shirt,” he says, with a frown.

Rachel rolls her eyes but then straddles his legs anyway and gives him one of those ‘mailman’ kisses that she  _totally_  knows how to use on him.  It’s mean, and kind of awesome.  “Just go and be nice.”

With one final pat to his cheek, she heads out her bedroom to the bathroom, and he lets himself out of her house.

She probably should’ve told him where Brittany lives, he thinks, and then his phone buzzes a second later with an address.

Rachel’s going to be president someday.  He thinks he’ll make a pretty good first husband.

*

Brittany has been in his class since they were like five.

He remembers it pretty clearly because everyone else was learning how to spell and stuff, and they were still cutting out paper shapes together because, according to Mrs. Simpson, their first grade teacher, “some kids just need a bit more time.”

He still needs a bit more time, and Brittany just—well.  He remembers remedial math in their sophomore year, and how she’d just spent the entire time doodling rainbows, so.

He knocks on the door awkwardly and then blinks when a smaller, younger version of Brittany opens up.

“I’m Kelsey.  Who are you?” she says, all gap-toothed and squinting at him.

“Um, I’m Finn.”

“You’ve never been here before,” Kelsey points out to him, tilting her head.

“I have, actually; there was a party here last year that—” he starts saying, but then Kelsey’s eyes saucer and he quickly amends that to, “No, you’re right, that was Santana’s house.”

“You know Santana?” Kelsey says, giving him a very wary look.

“I’m in the Glee club,” Finn finally says, because there’s no telling if it’s a good or a bad thing if he knows Santana, and like—Rachel just said that thing about them hooking up.  He doesn’t want to get involved in girl drama with an eleven year old.  Why is he even here?

Brittany, mercifully, shows up behind Kelsey and lifts her up before tickling her.

“He’s my special guest star, Kels; be nice,” she says, with a small frown.

It’s maybe the first time that Finn’s ever seen Brittany frown at anything.  He doesn’t really know, but then she smiles at him and says, “We’re going to talk about amphibians today.  Okay?”

“Yeah, cool,” he says, because he saw this documentary about crocodiles a while back at Puck’s when they were too drunk to play on the XBox and he actually has some thoughts about whether or not he’d rather be a crocodile or a shark.

Maybe this won’t be totally stupid after all.

*

Fondue is like some Italian cheese shit.  He has absolutely no idea, but Brittany has like eighteen bars of chocolate melting in a pot and he just sort of watches as she spears some cheese and dips it into the chocolate.

“We have to eat first; it’s the first five minutes of the show.  Be careful, though, it’s like super hot and we need your mouth for singing,” she says, before blowing on her skewer and then slowly, carefully, chewing on the sticky, melting cheese.

He looks at the cheese selection and says, “Um.  Is this all just like cheddar?”

“Oh, God, no.  My dad runs like, this wine bar.  They have all sorts of stuff from other countries.  I’m really into Camembert right now,” Brittany says, pointing at this weird looking white circle thing.

“Wait, bear cheese?” he asks, blinking at her.

“It’s French.  It smells kind of like the boys’ locker room but it’s like super soft when it starts to go, you know, and good with the chocolate,” Brittany says, before taking some initiative and just preparing some of it for him.

He burns the crap out of his tongue, even though she warned him, and then she’s pouring water onto his face to try and get him to swallow it because that’s what this weird British show called  _Bizarre ER_  recommends you do when someone burns themselves.

“On the tongue?” he asks, when he can, before running a hand through his hair and blinking water out of his eyes.  His tongue feels super swollen, like a bee stung it, and Brittany is still just hovering over him with a concerned expression.

“No, this was like, the foot, but—”  She sighs and says, “I don’t know a lot of stuff, I’m sorry.  It felt like the thing to do.”

A cat appears on his shoulder a second later and then sits on his wet head for a moment.

“It’s cool, I’ll be fine,” he says.  He tries to make it sound like he means it, too, but his tongue’s not really helping.

Rachel is going to be  _so_  pissed (even though this is totally not his fault but like, since when has  _that_  stopped her?)

*

Ten minutes later, he can sort of feel his mouth again, and Brittany’s been sitting across from him, petting the world’s fattest cat (which only clawed at his face once, so he figures he’s done something right, at least.)

“So—amphibians,” he says, reminding her of why he’s there.

“I don’t really want to talk about those,” Brittany says, after a moment.  “I just ran out of ideas.”

“Well, what was your last show about?” he asks.  Her sofa is like super low to the ground and his knees are almost hitting his chin.

She looks a little wounded when she says, “Didn’t you watch it?”

Shit.   _When_  will he learn?  It’s hilarious that the voice inside of his head that tells him he’s a dumbass sounds  _exactly_  like Quinn these days, although really, he also has nightmares about it so maybe funny isn’t the right way to put it.

“No, I mean—”

“It’s okay,” Brittany says.  “Santana doesn’t watch it either.”

He glances at the laptop that’s recording all of this and wonders if it’s on; there isn’t like a red light or anything, and anyway, Brittany being sad is like the craziest thing ever, so he leans forward a little bit more and sort of whispers, “I bet she does, but like—doesn’t want to say anything, because she’s supposed to be all scary and watching a show about cats isn’t scary at all.”

Brittany rolls her eyes a little when she says, “It’s not about  _cats,_ Finn.”

“Sure it is, isn’t he your co-host?” Finn asks, pointing at that fat ass tub of lard on her lap.

The cat purrs, like he knows he’s being talked about.

Brittany, meanwhile, smiles.  “So you  _have_  seen it.”

He doesn’t say that Rachel had it on repeat for a while when he came over just to up the hit count on Youtube, and that literally the only thing he remembers about it is that the cat’s name is like Lord Tubbers or something (which is kind of mean, why would anyone name a male cat after pregnant Quinn?), because he’d been too busy trying to make out with Rachel to pay attention.

What he does say is, “Well yeah, when I have time, I mean.  I just haven’t seen the last one.  Yet.”

Brittany’s face brightens so quickly that he feels super proud.  “It’s okay, they don’t go anywhere. I mean, Kurt said that they might go viral but I don’t know how you give a video herpes so—”

“Cool,” Finn says.  “I’ll totally watch it tonight.”

Brittany drops the cat to the floor and carefully eats a little more fondue before tilting her head and saying, “We could talk about football.”

“Do you know anything about football?”

She stares at him.  “I’m a cheerleader, duh.”

“No, but, I mean—”

“I watch it with my dad,” Brittany says.  “He likes it.  And he watches So You Think You Can Dance with me, so—”

“What’s your team?” Finn asks.

“I don’t really have one,” she says, with a shrug.  

He frowns at her.  “But you have to support someone.”

“I pick on the day, like, on the basis of colors.  And also, which quarterback smiles.”

That is one of the craziest things he’s ever heard.  “But—”

“It’s why I always support you, Finn.  You always smile.”

Oh.  All right then.

“Well, until you see Quinn, anyway.  But it’s okay, she  _is_  a little bit scary.”

“A  _little_  bit?” he says, before he can help himself, and shit.  This is going on the internet.

Brittany shushes him with a finger to her lips.  “I think she might have my room bugged,” she hisses, before glancing at her ceiling lamp.

Dating Quinn for 8 months really did a number on him when he doesn’t even think that that’s unlikely.

“We should probably um, talk about the PAC-10 or something, then.”

“Oh, I love Pacman,” Brittany says.  “Sometimes I think I should just do that at school—constantly make that wacka wacka noise when walking around like I’m going to eat people.  You know?”

He laughs.

*

Rachel calls him shortly afterwards and says, “How was it?”

“Insane,” he says, which isn’t a word he uses lightly around Rachel.

“Were you nice?” she asks, a little pointedly.

“Dude, check for yourself.  It’s on Youtube,” he says, and he knows he sounds more annoyed than he should, but his tongue still really hurts and whatever.  He can’t round second with her like this anyway.

She’s quiet for a moment and then just says, “Thanks for doing this, Finn.  I’m sure it means a lot to her.”

“It’s cool, I mean, I’m going back next week, so,” he says, glancing at his watch and wondering if a Slushie will make him feel better.  Mouth-wise.

“So—when are you coming over?”

She says it in her seductive voice—he hasn’t yet pointed out to her that it’s basically just her normal voice but whinier—and he winces when he says, “I’m not, she—you’ll see, but she basically tried to kill me with fondue and now I can’t feel my tongue.”

“Can’t you come over anyway?” she asks, and oh boy, now he’s done it.

“Well, yeah, but I’d rather—”  He wonders about what flavor would be the most soothing.  He could ask Rachel but she’d point out they’re all chemically the same and it’s just food coloring, which is  _such_  a lie because the grape is totally better than all the other ones.

Brittany would have an opinion, he thinks, before Rachel’s voice hits that pitch that means he’s really fucked up about something.

“Is this really  _all_  you ever think about?”

“What, grape Slushies?” he asks.

She hangs up.  

He frowns at his phone for a long moment, and then texts Brittany for an opinion.

 _Blueberry, because blue is cold and your tongue needs it (sorry again),_ is what he gets back a good ten minutes later.

He’s been in remedial English long enough to know that she spent an absolute fucking age trying to spell all of that out in full and without mistakes.

How the hell a girl like  _that_  is best friends with Santana Lopez—

—well, maybe the point is that they’re not so much anymore.

*

He’s totally still in the doghouse a week later, and even though he’s dropped off some flowers ( _not_  gardenias, because holy shit did Rachel not like that move, even though apparently they are nice and subtle) and called her like a billion times, he must’ve really done something wrong this time.

It’s exhausting, and so he heads over to Puck’s, where to his great surprise, Santana and Brittany are hanging out.

“Are you guys having like a threesome later or something?” he asks, before he can stop himself.

Puck goes, “Dude, she’s gay now.”

“Not anymore,” Brittany adds, with a sigh.

Santana just glares at him, and he feels his balls shrivel.  It’s a miracle they ever managed to have sex at all because despite all signs to the contrary, terror doesn’t actually turn him on.

“Okay, well, since you two are here.  Explain chicks to me,” he says, before settling down on the floor in front of them and reaching for Puck’s spare controller.  He’s playing Super Smash Bros, which was totally their gig when they were 13, and it’s nice—reminds him of better times, or something.

Even though he’s totally happy now, but  _damn_ , girls are just so complex and tiring.

“There aren’t enough words in the English language, Finnacle,” Santana says; he doesn’t need to turn around to know she’s rolling her eyes.

“Sure there are, there are billions.  Maybe more than that.  What comes after billions?”

“Trillions,” Puck says.  “Which is the score I’m going to beat your ass with today, Hudson.”

“I’m serious,” Finn says, squinting at the screen.  “Like.  I keep trying to do things to make Rach happy, but it’s like I can never do enough of them.”

“Your own fault for going after yet another crazy high maintenance chick, man,” Puck says, shaking his head.  “Fabray and Berry?  Fuck, you might as well start dating like, someone’s mother.  That shit would be less complex.”

“I hate to agree with the resident bonehead, but he has a point,” Santana says, in a slow drawl.  It’s the voice she uses when explaining really simple things to really stupid people, and, well, whatever.

“I love her, though,” he says.  Because it’s  _true_.  Whenever he thinks about Rachel and all that she’s going to do in life, and like, how she looks when she’s singing, he actually feels a little funny in his chest.  That’s what love is.  He’s been forced to watch  _The Notebook_  enough times by now to just _know_.  “And like—shouldn’t that just be enough to make up for all the other dumb stuff I do?  Because it’s not like I’m trying to screw up, but—”

“Rachel’s like—okay, so when I dance,” Brittany says, surprising him.  “I like dancing with everybody, but it’s always best with Mike because I don’t need to tell him what to do.  He just does it.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Finn asks.

“Because when you’re like—relationship dancing with Rachel, she always has to tell you what to do.  Sometimes she gets angry because it’s tiring,” Brittany says, before adding, “And you shouldn’t play with Bowser, he’s super mean.  It’s like cheating even if it’s not.”

Finn totally fucks his game by looking over his shoulder.  “You play Smash Bros?”

Brittany shrugs and says, “I like Yoshi.  He’s cute.”

Puck fist-pumps a second later and says ,”Like taking candy from an oversized baby, dude.  Your head’s all over the place.”

“Yeah,” Finn says, before dropping the controller again and wondering what the hell he’s supposed to do about all this dancing stuff.  If two years of doing it almost every day haven’t made him any better at it, he’s pretty sure that nothing aside from like, X-Men style government surgery to give him like an enhanced dancing spine would.

“Rachel  _should_  be dancing with Quinn, but like—that’s just never going to happen,” Brittany says, out of nowhere.

Santana bursts out laughing and then says, “Are you high?”

“Not right now, but—I don’t really know why not,” Brittany says, and Finn watches as a long leg pokes out and nudges Puck in the shoulder.  “I want cupcakes, this time.  With icing.  Icing’s awesome.”

Puck grumbles something but gets up anyway and fishes around his nightstand for a baggie, and then looks at Santana.  “You gonna help me or what?  You know I can’t bake for shit.”

Santana rolls her eyes and gets up, hands on hips.  “What am I, your fucking housewife?”

“I’d  _fuck_  my housewife, so clearly you’re not her,” Puck says.

Santana chases him up the stairs a second later, and Finn slowly turns around until he’s facing Brittany.

“Rachel and Quinn aren’t gay,” he says, looking at her carefully.

“Who cares about that?  People should just do what makes them happy,” Brittany says, with a small look towards the stairs.  “When you start thinking too much about everything you’re doing, it all just goes—you know, like those comic book noises.”

“Ka-pow,” he says.

“Yeah, or the sploeey one, you know, when gunk blows up,” she says, biting her lip and glancing at him again.  “Santana’s always like that . The noises, I mean.  It’s why I told her we can’t be anything but friends, but—it’s hard.”

“Hang out with other people instead.  S’what I do when Rachel’s … you know.  Rachel,” he says.

Brittany smiles at him and says, “It’s nice.  That you’re trying to fix everything.  I really think it’s a good thing to do, but it probably won’t work.  You know that, don’t you?”

He doesn’t want to say yes, but when Rachel finally texts him back later that night and says,  _I’m ready to hear an apology now; and for the record, you’re apologizing for refusing to spend time with me unless you get to feel me up, which even Quinn agrees is a low move._

“Oh, shit, they’re talking to each other,” Finn mumbles, and Puck looks at him with two lazy, unfocused eyes.

“Oh, man.  Your life is about to get ruined,” he then says, and when he slowly starts laughing, he doesn’t stop for another twenty minutes.

Brittany and Santana are sort of snuggling on the couch behind him—because it’s small, and Brittany’s legs take up most of it—and it should be cute, but really, he’s never seen two people look more miserable about being cuddly and stuff.

So much for the perfect summer after all that drama.

*

Rachel doesn’t ask him to go over to Brittany’s this time, and really, after he wrote and rehearsed a twenty line apology and delivered it in song a few days ago, things have been pretty cool again.

He just figures that she has expectations she’s not voicing—she always does—and so he shows up at the Pierce house again on Thursday and looks at Kelsey sternly when she opens the door.

“Hi, Finn,” Kelsey says.  “Brittany tells me you’re nicer than Santana, so  I’m going to let you in now, okay?”

“Cool,” he says, and steps around her before peering up the stairs.

Brittany is wearing some obscenely short shorts and he’s basically looking up them when she’s at the top of the stairs, cat draped over her shoulder.  He averts his eyes and mumbles something incoherent like “woahhhello”, and she laughs and says, “We’re trying something new today.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, I got some fruits.  Like, apples and stuff.  It’ll be like a Nutella sandwich.”

“Apples and chocolate don’t taste like hazelnut,” he points out, climbing the stairs until he’s towering over her again and that  _would_  be better, except she’s also wearing a tiny tank-top and he’s gone from staring at her legs— _legs_ , he’s not that rude—to her boobs.

“Sure they do, if you close your eyes.”

There’s not really any arguing with that, and when he tries it a few minutes later—she has to remind him once, but whatever—it’s actually kind of true.

*

She doesn’t have a topic prepared this time, but just says a few things about how next year is going to be weird.

“Because, like, everyone’s going to be applying to college and I don’t really know what I’m going to do during that time.  You know?” she says.

Quinn the Man Cat is draped over her lap again, and Finn watches her knit her fingers into the cat’s fur, stroking gently.  It’s almost hypnotic, except he  _is_  paying attention and just says, “Yeah, I know.”

“Are you not going to college?” she asks.

It’s weird that he’s having this conversation with her, but maybe not.  She’ll get it, in ways that everyone else won’t.

“I thought about it.  I mean, I’m eligible for a scholarship, and Coach Beiste thinks I have a pretty good shot, but—I’m just good with my hands, you know?  I mean, that’s why I play sports anyway.  My brain doesn’t work with word and stuff, but on a ball—and, I don’t know,” he says, looking at the fondue pot, now full of bits of skewered apple.  “Like.  Quinn was right.  I’m talking to Kurt’s dad about his shop, and it’s kind of awesome, fixing up cars.  I mean.”

“You like it,” Brittany says.

“Yeah. I do.  It’s stuff that just makes sense.  You sort of put it together and then things click and the car runs, and you’re done.  It’s…”  He shrugs and then shakes his head.  “I don’t know.  Rachel thinks I should do more.  Quinn thinks that it’s like, all I’m good for.  But—”

“It doesn’t matter what they think.  Santana thinks I should continue cheerleading and maybe go pro, but cheerleading is just like, dancing for people who can’t dance well enough.  I don’t want to go to college.  I just want to go and take dance classes, and teach them.”

He looks at her carefully for a moment, and then watches as the cat slowly walks around the room, before settling next to him.

He pets it gently, because he’s still not entirely sure it won’t try to kill him—it’s named after Quinn, after all—but the cat just purrs and settles.

“You’re the best dancer I’ve ever seen,” he finally says.

“I know,” she says, with a smile.  “And it kind of sucks that that’s not enough for some people.  I mean, my parents get it, but it would mean a lot if…”

“If other people didn’t think it was like, giving up,” he says, with a wry smile.  “Yeah.  I’m probably going to have to re-take math next year just to pass graduation requirements.  I totally failed, and didn’t want to do summer school, so—”

“See you there,” Brittany says, before making a clicking noise at the cat.  It’s totally ignored, and Finn reaches for another Nutella fondue snack before saying, “So—do you have any like, feelings about crocodiles or anything?”

“Oh, they’re awesome,” Brittany says, unfolding her legs and man, he really doesn’t  _want_  to be looking because she’s like… his  _friend_  now, but—

Why can’t any of the girls he knows just wear normal clothing?  It’d be so much easier to not be a hormonal douche if they’d just all dress like Quinn, geez.

*

He watches the episode later that night, on Rachel’s couch, with her laptop on the table in front of them.

It is like, seriously, the least coherent thing ever, and he tenses when he realizes that Brittany didn’t cut out their conversation about college.

Rachel tenses as well, and then finally hits pause with her toe and turns to look at him.

“Were you being honest, there?” she asks, in an uncertain voice that doesn’t spell a whole lot of good for them.

He considers lying, but doesn’t even really know  _why_  anymore.  It’s not like he  _should_  be in trouble for any of this.  “Yeah.  I mean.  I want to do it.  Take over the shop, I mean.  I don’t want to go to college and have to take more math and English and just… suck at it.”

“I didn’t mean that part,” Rachel says, and lowers her eyes for a moment.  “Do I really make you feel this badly about yourself?”

He feels something awful twist right below his ribs, like that time when Puck slammed him a bit too hard in practice but under the surface, and then says, “I don’t think it’s like, you  _trying_  to make me feel bad.  It’s just…. you’re going to go to one of the best schools in the country with Kurt, and what are we even going to talk about, Rach?  I mean.  I’ll be all like, I changed the oil in a car, and you need me to be there with you—if not literally in New York then… at least somewhere where I can relate to you.”

“I don’t need you to be anything other than who you are, Finn,” she says, quietly.

“I’m going to be your hick boyfriend from Ohio.  The mechanic who you can’t let go of.  And you’re like, going to win the Grammy or something—”

“The Tony,” she says, like she can’t help correcting him, even now.

“I’m going to have to rent a suit because I won’t  _own_  anything to wear, and sometimes, yeah.  That kind of gets to me.  I don’t… want to be something I’m not, but I need to be if I’m with you,” he says, fumbling for the right words, because this isn’t about whether or not he loves her.  This is about much bigger stuff he can’t even really put into words.

“Quinn thinks you’re capable of a lot more than you do, Finn,” Rachel finally says.  “And so do I.”

“Yeah, well.  You say that now,” he finally says, and his arm slides away from her back without his permission.  “It’s just kind of messed up that you’re the one who’s always thinking about the future, and yet you can’t see that it’s totally  _fine_  with me that I’m never leaving Lima.  It’s just not okay with you.”

Rachel says nothing else for a long moment, but then hits the play button again, and watches as Finn and Brittany talk about who would win in a fight to the death: Sue Sylvester or that crocodile from Peter Pan.  Finn watches her watch it, and watches as she starts to cry silently and laugh at the same time.

“Rach; I love you, but—” he says, and she just nods a few times, before saying, “I know.  I love you too.”

It’s a lot better than breaking up with someone at a funeral, but that’s really about the only thing that’s good about it at all.

*

Kurt shows up at his room a few hours later and says, “I heard.”

“It’s for the best.  I don’t know what I was thinking, you know, saying that it would be okay for us to be together right now.  Like we’re not all stuck thinking about what comes next anyway,” Finn says, with a sigh.  He’s had CoD on pause for the last ten minutes because he still feels a little like he’s going to throw up, and he doesn’t want his stats to suffer, but when Kurt walks into the room further and sits down next to him, he just turns the XBox off altogether.

“I think you did something very decent, by letting her know.  Even if you did also immediately inform the rest of the world via Brittany’s idiot Youtube show,” Kurt says, gently.

“It’s not  _stupid,_ ” Finn says, with a frown.  “It’s—she’s just having some fun.  I don’t see why it matters.”

“Well, it’s hardly Emmy-worthy investigative journalism,” Kurt says, and something about the dry sarcasm in his voice just really rubs Finn the wrong way.

“So fucking what, dude?  If that’s what you want, and if that’s what Rachel wants and what Quinn wants, why don’t you just go and look for it somewhere  _else_?  Why does it always mean that other people are doing things wrong or aren’t good enough somehow?”

Kurt looks at him carefully and says, “I’m sorry.  You’re right.  It doesn’t matter what that show is, unless it’s fun.”

“Well, it is.  And fondue’s fucking delicious,” Finn says, limply throwing his controller to the floor and then gripping his head in his hands.  “I don’t agree with Rachel on like, anything, really, but she’s right about us being shitty friends to each other when we can’t even like, help the nicest person we know make her cat a Youtube celebrity.”

Kurt says nothing for a really long time, and then says, “I came here to let you talk about Rachel, if you wanted to.”

“I don’t really have anything to say that  I didn’t say to her already,” Finn says, and then glances to the right, at where Kurt is studying him.  “She’s—whatever.”

Kurt’s eyes narrow for a moment, and then he says, “So.  How does one become a guest star on Fondue for Two?”

“By not being a jerk, and just telling her you want on,” Finn mumbles, and then sighs and says, “Sorry, dude.  It’s been a long week.”

“It’s been a long two years for you,” Kurt says, easily, and then pats him on the shoulder.  “Blaine wants to go see Monster Trucks this weekend, and I’d rather stab myself in the eye with my eyeliner, so maybe you two can go; I think the distraction might help you.”

Finn almost laughs and then says, “Yeah, okay” because watching football with Blaine had also been unexpectedly cool, so.

He needs to stop assuming things about people.  He’s pretty much constantly wrong anyway, so maybe he should just buy a clue from Brittany and  _ask_  people what they’re thinking and doing when he doesn’t understand.

*

His mom drags him out grocery shopping on Friday morning and he spends a long time staring at the fruit section, wondering what  _else_  would be good with chocolate.

In the end, he buys three packets of walnuts and some bananas and ties a knot into the grocery bag they’re in, before driving by Brittany’s house and dropping them off with Kelsey.

“What’s this?”

“It’s for your sister,” Finn says, shoving his hands in his pocket.  “Tell her that she should make a separate little thing for the nuts and like, they can be fished out with a spoon or something.  It’ll be super tasty.”

“Oh, it’s fondue stuff,” Kelsey says, and then glares at him.  “Why aren’t you bringing it this Thursday?”

“She’s got like another guest coming on,” Finn says.  “Why do you care?”

“I don’t,” Kelsey says, and slams the door in his face.

It’s official: girls are completely bizarre from like age eight onwards.  He’s pretty much done  _trying_  to understand them at this point.

*

He’d been out to see the latest James Cameron 3D thing with Sam on Thursday night, and ends up watching Fondue for Two over breakfast.

Kurt walks by and says, “Oh, my God, not a word” when he sees what Finn is watching, and Finn just raises his eyebrows and watches as Brittany starts talking about how Kurt’s sex life confuses her but if two cats can figure it out, she figures two men can also—and then starts applying make-up to Kurt on camera.

He’s laughing too hard to eat after the first ten minutes and then ends up just feeling weirdly happy when Kurt stops being a dick about everything that’s going on at the fifteen minute mark, and happily considers which of the teachers at McKinley could possibly become sexy with the right make-over.

He lets it run while he does some dishes afterwards, and only slams his laptop shut when it’s at ten hits, because that feels like a pretty good number to let it sit on.

*

Santana shows up at his house later and he immediately takes like, two steps backwards.  Rumor has it she has a stiletto that like slides out of her arm or something, like she’s Wolverine.  Or maybe she has guns in her hair.  He can’t even keep track anymore.

“What are you doing?” she asks, bluntly.

“I’m… nothing?” he says, before crossing his arms over his chest—and then realizing that’s not manly at all, it’s  _Kurt’s_  default defensive posture—and just letting his arms hang stupidly again.  He always feels like a gorilla around Santana anyway, which is probably her fault for letting him know he fucked her with about as much sophistication as King Kong the first time.  (He’d had to look up ‘sophistication’ and had then angrily texted her not to be a bitch two days later, which all feels kind of stupid now that he knows she’s a lesbian.)

“First you dump the dwarf, which, by the way—classy move, dicking her around for an entire year while you’re two-timing my best friend emotionally, and then leaving her  _again_  as soon as you’ve got her—”

“It wasn’t like that,” he interjects.

She stares at him and rolls her eyes.  “Look, I may have created a Berry voodoo doll and God knows I want to slit her throat just so she’ll stop talking a lot of the time, but Rachel’s  _good people_  and you are just a moron.  But that’s not why I’m here.”

“Oh?” he asks.  Or, well, he sort of makes that noise anyway, because she’s taking another two steps forward and poking a finger in his chest.  (Maybe the stiletto comes out of her finger, because man, her nails are sharp.)

“What are you doing with  _Brittany?_ ” she asks, very sharply.

“I’m—what?” he asks.

“Don’t act dumb.”

“It’s not an  _act_ , Santana,” he says, crabbily, before swatting her hand away.  “I  _am_  pretty stupid, so maybe you should just tell me what you mean.”

“She’s been talking about you,” Santana says.  She goes from being terrifying to sounding really confused in like, a second, and Finn blinks just to keep up.  “In the way she used to talk about Artie.  Like, she  _likes_  you.  So what are you doing?”

“Didn’t you like, end things with her?” Finn asks.

“I’m asking as her  _friend_ ,” Santana says, warningly.

“Yeah, well, you’re wasting your time because there’s nothing going on, dude.  She’s just—we get each other,” he says, with a frown.  “And for what it’s worth, Quinn never loved me, so you can stop trying to make me feel shitty about that.”

Santana sighs and says, “Finn, you are  _legitimately_  the stupidest guy I’ve ever met, and bear in mind that I know Puck.”

“Whatever.  Just—stop threatening me, because it’s pointless.  Brittany just needs some friends who aren’t you,” he finally says.

Santana flinches at that, but lets up and says, “Fine.  Just don’t fuck it up, big guy.”

“Fuck  _what_  up?” he asks her, but she doesn’t respond and just wanders down the path again, before getting into her car and peeling away.

He feels like the lesbian mafia just warned him off or something, and wonders what they’d leave in his bed, because it’s probably not a horse head.  Maybe a fish taco?

He’d ask Kurt, but he doesn’t want to be accidentally offensive again.

*

Even though he’s super afraid that Santana is like going to, randomly drop from Brittany’s ceiling and kill him like a ninja, he shows up next Thursday anyway. 

She didn’t like invite him or anything, but he can’t imagine Kurt going again after Brittany asked him about gay dude blowjobs in his first ever appearance, and despite all of her bullshit about how she wants to be a good friend, Rachel obviously doesn’t want to go on the show either or she would’ve never sent him over to begin with.

He’s surprised when Kelsey opens up with, “It’s already started, and you’re late, and probably not invited.”

“You are going to be such a great cheerleader one day,” he tells her, and he means it. 

She kind of beams in response, and then sighs and says, “You know where she is.”

He knocks, because Kelsey did mention there were already people in there, and Brittany opens the door a moment later and says, “Oh.  Hey!”

“Um.  I’m here for fondue,” he says, shifting uncomfortably and trying to look past her but not  _too_  obviously.

“Oh, wow.  That’s awesome.  I didn’t realize you liked chocolate that much,” Brittany says, opening the door and letting him in.  “You should come.  We’re discussing stereotypes today.”

Mike says, “Sup, dude” and Tina gives him a small wave.  Quinn just stares at him.

“Um.  You’re white.  What’s the stereotype about you?”

Oh, god, Scary Quinn in an instant.  “I’m a  _Christian_.”

“Oh, right.  Yeah.  Sorry,” he says, before awkwardly sitting down on the floor because there’s no more space on any of the seats.  “Wait, but then, why isn’t Mercedes here?”

Tina smothers some laughter and Quinn just sighs and says, “I beg you, just stop talking.”

Brittany flops down next to him, and Finn watches as Quinn the Pregnant Cat drapes his fat ass body all over both of their legs, sort of like a bridge connecting them.  He pets the back half of the cat and watches as Brittany scritches at his neck.

“Okay, so, we were talking about misunderstandings about Asians,” Brittany says, leaning backwards and hitting a button on her laptop again. 

“We’re not all smart,” Mike says.  “Some of us are, you know, not great at Chemistry.”

“Awesome.  Chemistry is like  _way_  hard,” Brittany says, before looking at Finn.

He shrugs.  “Don’t ask me, dropped it in ninth grade when it was clear I was never going to be a rocket scientist.”

Quinn clears her throat and says, “It’s my weakest subject, too.”

“Yeah, you’re getting a whole A in it,” Tina says, dryly, and then adding, “We’ve been lab partners for the past six months, after things with Sam got a little awkward.”

Finn looks around the room and wonders for just one moment if Glee would maybe be a lot different if  _this_  had been the way it had started; with Brittany, who loves everyone, and Mike and Tina, who just know how to leave people alone, and … well, Quinn without the crazy.

He’d have missed Rachel and Kurt, but—

“Everyone thinks football is stupid and really easy, but it’s not.  There’s  _so_ much tactics involved,” he says, without thinking.

“No kidding; and it’s worst for the quarterback,” Mike says.  “You do us proud though, man.”

“Well, I try, but honestly, all the numbers and the codes; a lot of the time I just… sort of wing it,” Finn admits, and then glances at Quinn.  “ _You’re_  the one who’s like, an amazing leader.”

“People follow me because they’re afraid of me,” Quinn says, a little wryly.  “Hell, that’s half the reason we dated as long as we did.”

“Santana’s like that,” Brittany says, and her hand knocks into Finn’s for a second; he jolts at it, and then looks at her.  “It’s stupid, because—you two are both really nice when it comes down to it.”

“There’s not a lot of room for nice at McKinley,” Tina says, with a sigh.  “It’d be great if there was, but—”

“I’m trying,” Quinn says, and then looks at Finn.  “I think it’s clear that we all are, at this point.”

Maybe she’s finally forgiven him, because he know he’s forgiven her a while ago. 

The cat stretches and yawns and rolls over onto his back, and Finn laughs without meaning to when Brittany just says, “Ooh, you pleasure hound.”

It’s probably the best episode yet, because when everyone heads out a while later, Tina gives Quinn a ride home and Mike suggests hitting up the arcade for a little Time Crisis, and when Finn looks over his shoulder at where Brittany and the cat are closing the door, he says, “Hang on” and doubles back

“How are you with guns?” he asks, abruptly, shoving a hand against the door before she can get it shut all the way.

“Um,” Brittany says, frowning.  “Well, Santana thought I should know how to use them in case that protein shake that Coach Sylvester designed was actually going to turn us into zombies, but—”

Finn blinks and then shakes his head.  “No, I mean like—light guns.  You know.  Video games.”

Brittany’s face falls.  “Oh my God, you’re not going to make me play Duck Hunt, are you?  Because that is like the  _saddest_  game ever, and—”

The weirdest thing happens, because for one stupid moment Finn thinks that maybe he’d like to kiss her, and  _woah_.  That’s a lot different from thinking it’d be stupid to not ask her to come hang out when she’s the only reason they’re all still talking now anyway.  (Rachel might be their leader, but Brittany’s the one who would never call any of them flat or demand too much, so it’s just  _true_.)

“No, no.  Time Crisis.  Like, some rich girl gets kidnapped and you’re the guy trying to rescue her,” he explains.

She squints at him.  “Can I like, be the girl who saves the  _guy_  who gets kidnapped?”

“I don’t think the game’s feminist enough for that,” Finn says, because he totally knows what feminism is now; it’s like when you hold doors open for girls but let them decide whether they want to walk through them. 

“That’s really stupid.  But it’s cool.  We can pretend that you’re the girl, and I’m the guy rescuing you,” Brittany says, before dropping Lord Quinn to the floor and giving him a kick in the ass to get him futher in the house.

She shrugs into a jacket a second later and then says, “Thanks for like, asking me to come along.”

“Dude,” Finn says, because it’s what he would say if Puck was having a serious homo moment, but Brittany actually looks like she needs a bit more than that.  “Um, thank  _you_  for like, doing the show.  It’s really cool, actually.”

She looks so happy when she slams the door shut that he feels like a fucking superhero or something.

(It doesn’t hurt that she’s fucking  _amazing_  at Time Crisis and after just one round, Mike demands to be partnered with her instead and sends Finn off to go get them some drinks.)

*

He wishes he had a different best friend sometimes.  He might have one, soon, because hanging with Mike was awesome, and he figures that when Sam gets back from Tennessee at the end of summer, he can also make some amends there.  But—for now, Puck is what he has, and he does trust the dude with his life despite all the messing with his girlfriends, so.

Puck’s rolling a joint when he gets in and he sits down next to him and says, “Dude, I think I have a problem.”

“Girls or parents?” Puck asks, licking at the paper and then squeezing the joint shut.

“Girls.  Or, just the one, really,” Finn says, and then sighs.  “I’m—shit, I don’t know how to talk about this kind of stuff.”

“Is it Rachel?” Puck asks, running his lighter past the edge of the joint, sealing it.

“No.”

“QFab?” Puck asks, raising his eyebrows.  “Because, man, seriously.  I might have to actually  _deck_  you if you go there again.”

“No, dude, I like my balls attached to my body—don’t be insane,” Finn says, cupping a hand around Puck’s when he lights the joint.    
Puck gives him a narrow-eyed look and then says, “ _Lopez_?”

Finn rolls his eyes like a fucking pro—really, a grand total of 12 months of dating Quinn, he’s pretty sure he’s better at it than most chicks are now—and says, “Why would you even  _say_  that, man?  And also, why have you now mentioned  _every_  fucking hot chick we know other than the one that I actually want to talk about?”

Puck stares at him for a moment, exhaling slowly, and then says, “Oh, man.  Santana is going to fucking kill you.”

“It’s none of her  _business_ , and anyway, I don’t even know if there’s anything going on, dude.  I mean, it’s Brittany.”

“Yeah, you’re right.  Girl loves legs-first, y’know?  Hard to tell when she means it and when she’s just feeling like a hug,” Puck says.

It’s not even  _untrue_ , which doesn’t explain why Finn feels like his hand is going to explode with how hard he’s suddenly clenching it.  “Dude, don’t fucking talk about her like that.”

“Woah, dude,” Puck says, holding up his hands in defense.  “I didn’t  _mean_ anything by it. I just—half the school has been there, man.  And she’s never really loved anyone aside from Santana, so.  Those are some fucked up shoes to try to fill.”

Finn bites his cheek until he’s pretty sure he’s not going to lay out his best friend just for saying some stuff that is basically not meant to hurt his feelings, and then finally sighs and says, “I can’t wait for high school to be done, man.”

“Yeah, that won’t help you much, dude, because the rest of us will all be fucking off and it’ll just be you and her here,” Puck says, dryly, before passing over the spliff.

Finn stares at him, and Puck shrugs.

“Just saying.  Time isn’t going to be your friend here.”

Finn sighs, and stares at the joint, and sighs again.  “It’s not going to go anywhere anyway, I mean, she’s just  _nice_ , you know?”

“Sure.  But there’s nice, and then there’s telling me to invite you over for videogames because she likes hanging out with you,” Puck says, with a small smile.  “ _Not_  that I’m saying she’s like ready to go all monogamous on your candied white ass, but—”

“Really?” Finn asks, with a frown.

“You need to go talk to a girl about this shit, man.  My lack of a vagina can’t handle all this feelings shit, and you are totally harshing on my potential high here.”

Finn laughs and says, “Whatever.  You’re like some fucking relationship Yoda now that Zizes has your nads in a vice.”

“Fuck off, man,” Puck says, stealing the joint back, and then kicking his XBox until the screen flickers alive again. “Let’s go kill some fucking Nazis.  Solves all problems.”

That’s not  _actually_  true, but it helps Finn not try to think about anything for at least three hours, which is good—thinking has  _never_  done anything good for him.

*

He dreams about her that night; with Puck, with Santana, with Sam (which, he’s pretty sure that’s never actually happened), with Artie (which really is just  _weird_  to picture because—how does it even work?) and wakes up with some serious morning wood as well as this intense need to throw the fuck up.

“Why can’t I ever just like someone  _normal_?” he asks, at random, because Grilled Cheesus is long gone and whatever, he’s not even really expecting an answer at this point.

The universe is clearly trying to teach him some lesson he doesn’t understand by constantly dropping him down the deep end, and honestly, when it comes down to it, only one person has ever  _grudgingly_ tried to explain stuff to him when he really didn’t get it.

He showers, brushes his teeth, puts on his only clean polo, and actually _combs_  his fucking hair, because Quinn is never letting him into his house unless he at least looks presentable, boyfriend or not.

*

She looks wholly unimpressed by him and then stands on her toes to fix his collar.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, and then adds, “Is your mom in?”

“No, she’s at a meeting,” Quinn says.  It must be a special meeting of some kind because Quinn looks all sorts of shifty, but opens up anyway and leads him into the dining room.

He sighs when he sits down and says, “You know, if I could do  _anything_ again, like—you know, time travel, or something.  I would  _not_ let Kurt talk me into singing that song.”

Quinn laughs and says, “Yeah, you’re not the only one.”

“I honestly just—”  He rubs at his cheek and then looks at her, even though it scares him to look straight at her, a lot of the time.  “I wanted to do right by you.  It’s not like I didn’t think it through, but I always just thought that—you know.  People would do the right thing.  I always wanted to do the right thing, and—”

“Finn, it’s okay,” she says, quietly, and then sits down next to him.  “Why are you here?”

“Can’t figure out what the right thing to do is anymore, and I thought I’d just… you know, ask the smartest person I know,” he says.

There’s a small smile on her face when she says, “I hope you’re not actually here to ask me for advice on how to get back together with Rachel, because I’m wearing three inch heels and I will  _not_  hesitate to drive them into your shin.”

He laughs.  “Aren’t you two like, almost friends now?”

“That’s different,” she says, and when he blinks at her she adds, “We never really did anything to each other, but you sure did mess with both of us.”  When he starts to apologize again, she holds up a hand and says, “It’s in the past, okay?  Unless you decide to go for thirds, in which case I might go and buy Santana a shotgun.”

None of this is funny, but she’s smiling and he can’t stop either.  “It’s not about Rachel,” he finally says.  “I’m… I mean, I wish we could be friends, but … maybe that’s just going to take some time.  I’m glad you and I are… well, are we friends?”

“Not yet,” Quinn says, and then adds, somewhat grudgingly, “But I’m not exactly swimming in them, and—I could do worse, as far as friends go.”

“I’m not as good a guy as people want me to be,” he says, looking at the bowl of fake fruit on the table, and like—who owns fake  _fruit_?  It’s so pointless.  What if someone accidentally fondues it?

“People’s expectations are… always misguided,” Quinn says, and then squints at him.  “Seriously, though.  Why are you here?”

“I think I might… like Brittany,” he says, carefully.  He looks at her briefly, and then relaxes when she doesn’t look like she’s going to go postal.

“Really,” she just says, with a small smile.

“Yeah, it’s—I mean, I don’t know.  She’s been in all my classes for ages and I’ve known her since we were five, and it’s like… suddenly she’s just become like, you know.  The only person who really  _gets_  me.  I mean, I guess she’s always been that, but I had football and stuff, and she had Santana, and… I don’t know.”  He sighs and runs a hand through his hair.  “All I know is that I was really pissed that she had other people over for fondue because it was kind of our thing, you know.”

“I know, I’ve seen,” Quinn says.

“Oh, cool, you watch her show.  That’s really good, Quinn, she needs—” he starts to say, and then stops when Quinn’s expression changes again.  “What?”

“I’m not going to tell you she feels the same way, because I have no idea; she’d make out with a plant if someone told her it was a nice plant, and I don’t mean any disrespect by that,” Quinn says, carefully. 

“Oh.”

“But,” Quinn adds, and then reaches for his hand; their fingers tangle almost automatically, but for the first time it actually feels like it’s  _right_  that they’re doing it.  “You know that good guy that everyone expects you to be?”

“Yeah,” he says, trying to keep up, but she’s doing that thing where her mind’s like eight steps ahead of her mouth, and honestly.  Part of him  _does_ love her, but in that way where he knows he’s going to be proud to have known her when they’re older.

“I think you’re him automatically when you’re around her.  So… maybe you should just go for it.”

He blinks, and then smiles tentatively.  “Did you just like give me your blessing?”

“That’s a very strange way to put it,” she says.

He squeezes her hand.  “You should go to like, LA.  A good school, and find some guy who is smart enough to keep up with you.  You’re too good for this place.”

“Yeah, so people have been saying,” she says, with a small smile.  “I’m thinking about it, okay?”

It’s good enough for him.

*

Quinn tells him to wear something nice, but not  _too_  nice, because Brittany reads cues like that much better than she does words, and he doesn’t want to freak her out or anything.

In the end, at Kurt’s added suggestion, he just wears one of his rugby shirts and his cleanest pair of jeans, and gives his hair the I’m Seeing Judy Fabray treatment twice, and it’s fine.  There’s that small cowlick that he always has, but he looks as good as he’s going to.  (He tries not to think about all the other guys Brittany’s seen naked, because some of them are built like _Mike Chang_  and Santana told basically the entire school about his flabby manboobs and—they’re not even close to getting naked or anything, so there is no point in freaking out about this or asking Quinn if he can join her on her morning runs from now on.  Yet.)

Kelsey opens the door without any snide comments for a change, and he takes the stairs two at a time, before walking in on Brittany who’s—

“Holy shit,” he says, and covers his eyes, before stumbling backwards into the doorframe.  “Ow, oh, man, can I open my eyes yet?  I think I might be bleeding but you’re not wearing a shirt.”

“It’s on now,” Brittany says, right by his ear, and he winces when fingers brush by what is going to be a pretty substantial bump on the back of his head.  “I think you’ll be okay.  You might have brain damage.”

“S’okay, my brain’s not all that special anyway,” he says, wondering why she’s still touching his head, but—it’s nice.  He’s not going to tell her to stop.

“You’re early,” she says, finally, when she steps away from him.

He wonders if he can blame blushing on like, his near-concussion.  “I just, yeah.  Sorry?  I can go back out, but—”

“You’re being weird,” she informs him, factually, and then drags him into the room by his hand.  “I got some strawberries.  I mean, it’s a classic, and I like experimenting, but—”

He’s seen enough romantic comedies with Rachel to take a moment to process this information.  “Strawberries and chocolate are… that’s like…” 

He has no idea how to end his sentence, and she saves him.

“They’re sexy.  Today’s topic is kissing, so I thought it would work.”

“Mailman,” he mumbles in response, before gingerly sitting down on the couch.

*

He’s not really sure how chocolate strawberries are supposed to be more like, erotic or whatever than chocolate and other stuff, but they  _are_  tasty, and he’s focusing on eating those to the point where, when Brittany finally says, “Quinn or Rachel?” he’s actually forgotten what she’s talking about.

“Huh?”

“Who’s the better kisser?”

He doesn’t hesitate when he says, “Are you trying to get me killed?”

She laughs at him and says, “I’ve never kissed Rachel, but Quinn is  _really_ good.  It’s because she’s all claustrophobic and stuff, I mean, right?  She only shows feelings when she’s kissing.”

Finn crosses his legs and counts to ten in his head.  “I’m… they’re both very good. I mean, I think.  They’re … Brittany,  _please_  talk about something else.”

“I loved kissing Santana,” Brittany says, after a moment.  “But—I think I’m ready to be kissing other people now.  I mean.  It’s been a long time.”

“Really?” he asks, because somehow all of this is just wrecking his ability to concentrate on  _anything_.  His third grade teacher thought he had ADD, but really, he just can’t deal with two amazing thoughts at the same time, and the current mental thread is stuck somewhere on BRITTANY KISSING GIRLS!

“Yeah, I needed some time for myself, after Artie and stuff,” she says, and then smiles at him.  “You know, you and Rachel are all I need for a perfect record.”

“I don’t think Rachel’s going to kiss you, Britt,” he says.

“Well, no, I don’t either, but that’s okay,” Brittany says, and gives him like, the sunniest smile in the world, before saying, “I like your shirt.  And I’m going to sit on your lap now, okay?”

He just nods, and right when she moves over next to him, remembers the laptop and says, “Um, like the entire town is going to—”

“Nobody but you and Quinn watch my show, Finn,” Brittany says.  “Your addresses show up; Mike explained to me how it worked.  And you’re really sweet, watching every episode twenty five times.  It’s why I thought it would be good to like, make out.”

“Is this like thank you kissing?” he asks, blinking up at her and then tensing when she slides onto his lap.

“No, that would be this,” she says, before kissing him on the cheek.

He blushes like a  _girl_  and then says, “Oh, well, you’re welcome.  You really talk about some deep stuff, you know, I mean, I like seeing the show even when I’m not on it—”

Then, she’s kissing him for real, and he just sort of goes “Mrrprh” into her mouth before relaxing just about enough to kiss back.  His head is all ping-pong between  _wow, practice does make perfect or something_  and just thinking,  _why haven’t I been doing this for years?_  

There’s a lot of answers to both of those things, but Brittany’s hands drape gently around his neck and then she makes a small noise that sounds like approval—he has no idea, no girl has ever made an  _approval_  sound around him—and leans back enough to press their foreheads together.

“Rachel, Quinn, or me?”

He mouths his answer so the recording won’t catch it, and she smiles and kisses him again.

*

Quinn texts three hours later:  _I’m not in the habit of watching near pornography starring my friends, but congratulations anyway_.

He calls her and says, “Dude, I need to work on my fitness levels if I’m going to like, try to be with her; she has better abs than I do.”

“She won’t care, Finn,” Quinn says.  “She’s not  _me_.”

“Yeah, but,” he says, and then frowns.  “Maybe I just want to be the best I can be for her.”

“See you at six am, in that case,” Quinn says, before hanging up.

He looks through all the games he has for his XBox and finally ends up playing some Ratchet and Clank; he figures Brittany would like it, because there’s cool animal-like things and weird-looking weapons that just go pow and zoom a lot.

That, and it’s pretty awesome for a girly video game; he figures she’d kick his ass at it if she ever tried.

*

His summer  _actually_  becomes a little bit great after that.

Mike doesn’t smoke up or anything, but hangs out with him and Puck anyway, and they talk about real stuff from time to time now; what NCAA team they’d ideally play for, and what it’s like to not have a dad and—whatever.  They have stuff in common.  Maybe it’s a little lame to be hanging out and talking about their  _dads_ , but God knows he wants to talk about it sometime, to have someone who’s just a ghost to live up to, and it helps.

It helps to the point that when he gets home later that day and Burt’s on the grill, he stands next to him and says, “I think I might have a new girlfriend and I mean, I would like you to meet her.  And stuff.  Is that okay?”

Burt looks at him funnily for a moment and then says, “Yeah, son.  Of course it is.”

“Cool.  Can I help?” he asks, and finally learns how to grill a sausage without burning it.

In Lima, that’s a pretty damn valuable life skill to develop. 

*

Quinn is like Stalin when it comes to exercise, and he feels like he’s going to die a good thirty percent of the time, but after the first three weeks, he’s starting to see some differences.  He needs to stay bulky, because Karofksy still hates his ass for a bunch of reasons and he gets sacked a lot more than he should, but—he’s getting quicker, and when he wipes some sweat off his face with his shirt at the end of the run, Quinn looks at him approvingly.

“You know, you never worked this hard to impress me,” she says, with a raised eyebrow.

“Pretty much knew from the get-go that I was never going to impress you at all,” he says, and laughs when she slaps him in the stomach with her towel.

It’s weird to think of Quinn as a friend, but it’s kind of where she fits in his life; tossing a water bottle back and forth and talking about how important it is to warm down.

“Hey,” he asks, on a Thursday, because he still gets weirdly nervous about the show, even though he’s seen Brittany other times now, and there’s been some kissing then as well.  It just feels like—with even one other person watching, he better make sure he’s good enough to be near her.  “Are you happy, right now?”

Quinn gives him a surprised look and then says, carefully, “I’m… getting there.”

“Yeah?”

She smiles faintly and says, “Therapy’s helping, and … actually, these runs are making me feel pretty good as well.”

“Good,” he says, and finishes the rest of the water before tossing the empty bottle back at her.  “Race you back.”

She laughs and chases, and he feels ridiculously proud when he actually almost outruns her.

*

The first time he sees Rachel all summer, it’s actually in a Target outside of Columbus; he’s there with Burt to buy some camping gear for a really ill-advised family trip that Kurt will hate every fucking second of, but it sort of makes sense.

Hiram and Leroy greet him cordially and then make themselves scarce, and Finn takes a deep breath before looking at Rachel.

“So.  I heard,” she says, softly, and then gives him one of those wounded dolphin looks that she does better than anyone.  “I can’t say I’m not surprised, but—”

“I didn’t mean for it to happen.  It’s not like with Quinn, where I was angry with you and—you know, it just felt like something I  _should_  do.  It just sort of happened after weeks of being on her show and just realizing that…. I don’t know.  We kind of make sense,” he says, awkwardly.  

Rachel smiles faintly at him.  “And she’s not going anywhere.”

“She’s like one of the best dancers in the world, Rach.  Of  _course_  she’s going places.  But she’s also going to need somewhere to come home to, and I guess…  I don’t know.  It’s just not the same.”

Rachel nods after a moment and then says, “I really hope this doesn’t throw the group dynamic next year.”

“I think the fact that you’re friends with Quinn, and  _I’m_ friends with Quinn, is like… a sign that the world is ending, so like.  This really shouldn’t be—”

Rachel smiles more genuinely and says, “I know.  I was trying to—you know.  Make a joke, about how stupidly focused I am on Glee club.”

“It’s your future.  Don’t apologize for that,” he says.

She hugs him a moment later, and he runs a hand through her hair, wondering if it would’ve ever worked; someone so short with someone so tall, never really in the same place at the same time.

“I really did love you, you know,” he says, because she needs to believe it.

“Make her happy.  You’re good at it, when you really want to,” she murmurs, in response, and then turns away from him and heads down the outdoors clothing aisle without looking back at him.

He’s pretty sure this is the last time things between them are going to be weird, because if Rachel can get over everything with  _Quinn_  just fine—

She’s a really big person.  It’s a really, really big part of why he’s always wanted to be near her, and maybe senior year will actually make that possible.

*

He’s read the instructions at least twelve times by now, with Google Translate, but they’re in French, and finally he curses and drops by Quinn’s with a large white cardboard box and a pleading look.

“You speak French, don’t you?”

She blinks at him and then says, “Are you planning a vacation?”

“No, I bought this… German thing; it might be from like, Swaziland, actually, but whatever.  There’s instructions on what to do with it and they’re in like, French.  And I’m okay with most of it—like, I’m supposed to let it pre-heat.  But I can’t make any sense of the food suggestions and I have to go shopping.”

Quinn reaches for the manual and scans through it quickly.  “What on earth is this even?”

“I saw it at Target and just… I don’t know.  Fondue was like, last year, you know?  But I really like things that have cheese on them and this is apparently like, the  _other_  way you can do that.”

He explains about the grill plate on top and the little pans that you put other things in, and then cover them with cheese, and it’s like  _make your own food_  type stuff.

“And there’s like, six pans, so I thought we could—you know, with Tina and Mike, and you and Kurt.  If you want to.”

Quinn stops reading and says, “I’ll come with you, because you can’t cook and this is hands-down the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen you try to do, so let’s make sure you don’t screw it up somehow.”

“You’re the best, dude,” he tells her, and she sort of rolls her eyes at him and reminds him pointedly that she’s  _mostly_  doing this for Brittany, who was the only Cheerio to not abandon her during pregnancy, and whatever.

Quinn is all talk these days, and it’s actually the best she’s ever been.

*

He starts having second thoughts when he’s actually on the doorstep, because Kelsey is kind of a little bitch, but before he can run off like a girl, Quinn’s already driving off again, with a honk that pretty much will have  _a_ Pierce at the door in a heartbeat.

It’s Kelsey, of course, who today just says, “So are you like dating my sister?”

“If she’ll have me,” he says, loudly; and of course, Brittany’s right there, laughing at him and saying, “Silly, just  _ask_ me, then.”

There’s been a lot of kissing and a lot of talking, but not really anything about serious stuff, so it’s probably for the best that he bought two bags of food and that raclette thing from Target, because—it shows that this is different.  Or he thinks it does, anyway.

“Where’s your dining table?” he asks, and she leads him towards it.  Her mother’s right there, and he freezes kind of awkwardly, like a cat burglar with three giant bags.

“Oh.  I’m… hi, sorry.  I didn’t mean—” he says.

Mrs. Pierce is merciful.  “You must be Finn.  Brittany’s talked a lot about you.”

“She has?” he asks, surprised, and then stupidly looks at the floor.  “Um, I hope she’s—said good things, and not how I’m kind of bad at school and stuff.  Because I am, but… I’m really good with cars, so—”

“Mostly she just said that you’re one of the sweetest guys she knows,” Mrs. Pierce says, before eyeing all of his luggage.  “Are you moving in, or just a very big eater?”

He flushes and says, “It’s a present.  For her.  I found some Swiss cheese things that we could do, maybe.  Instead of the show.”

Mrs. Pierce looks at Brittany, who’s taken one of the bags and is digging through it with an excited look on her face, and then smiles at Finn.  “Lord Tubbington’s internet career is being cut short, is it?”

“I don’t know, I already think he’s kind of a legend, so,” Finn says, with a shrug, and then puts the raclette set package on the table.  “Um, where are the cutting boards?  We have to make everything super small.  It’s going to take a while.”

*

It’s not quite a six-way date, because Quinn and Kurt  _obviously_  are not hooking up, but they get along with each other anyway, and so this is basically one of the best ideas  Finn has ever had.

Brittany says, “I don’t even miss the chocolate; this is  _amazing,_ like grilling for midgets” at some point, and he laughs and tries not to think about Rachel and mostly succeeds, when she plants another one of those spontaneous kisses on his cheek and Quinn smiles at him from across the table.

It’s a good summer.  He’s going to try to make his senior year every bit as good, and he’s pretty sure he’s going to have help, this time around.

  




End file.
